


Following Familiar Patterns

by milesawayfromthevoid



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff, Healing, Introspection, M/M, Misgendering, Moving In Together, Moving On, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Trans Eddie Kaspbrak, Transphobia, Unlike the movies Chapter 2 is a balm for Chapter 1, from all the horseshit not from each other, these Losers are getting married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 18:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesawayfromthevoid/pseuds/milesawayfromthevoid
Summary: One argument always fucked with Eddie's head. Not too long after he broke his arm in Neibolt, his mother lets him know exactly how she feels about his friends.AKA Do Not Fucking Touch Me (The Author)Titles by Pup's "Familiar Patterns"





	1. Yeah I Spent a Long Time Down in the Basement

**Author's Note:**

> You know when your parents catch onto your not-cishetness and are like, "no thank you"? Yeah. Be warned, this has a lotta personal, demeaning shit. Seriously, if you're in a bad headspace, skip ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big warning for transphobia, specifically the brand that's like, "oh I know you better than you know yourself, so you can't be trans!" Also, briefly, some internalized transphobia and homophobia is mentioned. If you're looking for fluff, chapter 2 can be skipped to w/out missing much. This is just a really self-indulgent, venty fic, and chapter one is to show that Eddie can move past all that horseshit.

For the first time since Neibolt, Eddie had managed to sneak away from his own nightmare house. His mother had left for long shift, and Eddie ran as soon as she went. He and Richie had went to the bookstore, Eddie on foot and Richie biking circles around him, to flick through the comics. There was a tense sort of silence when they passed by the arcade, one that -- for once -- Eddie found himself filling on Richie's behalf. He didn't miss how Richie's eyes were purposefully on the ground, how he pedaled just a little bit faster as they passed, and how they were on the opposite side of the road on both the way there and back.

"Why the fuck are you glaring right now?" He asked. 

Richie glanced back at him, and there was something in his eyes that made Eddie stop. They both pushed each other's buttons, both prodded and poked at their issues until they caved and spilled everything. But this look said, "Not right now. Maybe later. But now is a really fucking bad time and if you push, I won't budge."

It's their own, personal "beep beep." Eddie takes the hint and just keeps up with Richie and his bike.

Eventually, though, they fell back into their regular comic-based arguments. One in particular stuck from the cash register all the way back to Eddie's doorstep, thankfully distracting Richie from whatever was bugging him about the arcade. 

Now, the air between them is easy again. It's nice, comforting, in a way only Richie can manage. They fight, they exchange barbs, but they're there for each other. 

Speaking of. "I'm just saying, what they did to Jason is a fucking disaster and DC fucking sucks for falling for that bullshit rigged poll. You can't convince me otherwise, dipshit."

"Your face is the real disaster here, Eddie!" He calls as he bikes away. Eddie flips him off, but Richie only cackles out, "Later!" 

Eddie shuts the door, turns around, and nearly has a heart attack when he sees his mom there.

"Jesus!" He yelps. That fucking clown would forever ruin minor surprises for him, he swears. He's so surprised that it takes a full moment for him to realize he just blasphemed right in the hallway in front of his mother "Sorry, ma, I didn't expect to see you there! I thought you were still at work." 

"There was a scheduling problem," she replies. Her brow is furrowed, and she looks contemplative. Her tone is still even. "They let me go home early."

"Oh, that's crazy! Who, uh, replaced you?"

"Why did he call you 'Eddie'?" She asks instead, speaking over him.

He freezes. Eddie almost always freezes when he’s scared. 

“‘Addie.’ He said ‘Addie,’ mommy,” he answers. He can’t meet her eyes. He can feel his heart pounding, but his voice is just the right amount of fast for him. He doesn’t think his mom can hear his heart, so he has to sell it on his voice. 

He can’t bear it. He looks up. She looks miserable and guilty, indignant. 

“Oh, Adelaide,” she says, her eyes misting up. She sounds like he’s breaking her heart and Eddie feels his stomach twist and turn. “Laidey-bug, tell me he isn’t treating you like one of the boys.”

Eddie swallows down the hurt. “No,” he says, and the hurt comes right back up. "No, none of them do! Besides, Beverley is there now, remember? She treats me like one of the girls."

Her nose twitches at Bev's name, and Eddie feels a surge of protectiveness rise in the churning anxiety. “One other girl in a pack of hormonal, lewd boys. But I'm not supposed to worry! Look at you! You’re so delicate, sweetie,” she gestures to his broken arm. “That’s how it happened, wasn’t it? They...they  _ roughhoused _ a little too much, expected you to be as  _ strong _ as them."

Why was she saying that? She  _ knew _ how it happened. “No! I told you, it was my fau--”

“It’s okay, you're okay with me, you don’t need to lie to me. You don’t need friends like those, and I don’t want you hanging around them if that’s how --”

“It was my idea!” he blurts out. "Eddie, the nickname, it was me! I just wanted to try it out, see how it sounds. Don’t blame them, please."

His mom pauses, then her face crumples. She collapses into the sofa, hands covering her face. Eddie steps forward.

“Mommy?” he asks tentatively.

“It’s my fault,” she moans, her voice wrecked with grief, and Eddie rushes beside her. “I shouldn’t have let you go out with them! They're putting... _ thoughts _ into your head! Was it Richard? He's always spoken badly of me, how could you let him do that? Or was it that...that, short-haired little--"

“No, it was all my idea! They try to talk me out of it, but I decided I wanted them to call me Eddie, just for a bit, it’s not them! It's not Bev, it's not Richie! And I'm sorry, I do defend you, he's just like that but he's not...he's not bad. None of them are.”

She looks up at him, her face blotchy and red. Her gaze pins him like he's a butterfly on a corkboard.

“Did I raise you wrong, Adelaide?” she asks. She looks up at him, and he almost flinches under the intensity of the stare. “Do you blame  _ me _ ? Because if it’s not your friends, it  _ must _ be me. I’m a terrible mother, aren’t I.” it doesn't sound like a question. It sounds like a lead.

Eddie bites anyway. It's his mother, he can't not. “No, no it’s not!” he says. “It’s not you, it’s me!”

She continues. "I raised you badly, and that's why you disrespect me, and why you're acting so…" she waves at his clothes, his shorter hair. "Is this the kind of attention you want?"

"C'mon, mom! No!"

"Do you want people to say bad things about us? How  _ weird _ you are, how  _ unfit _ I am? They'll take you away from me, you know. They’ll think I’m doing something to you, that you’re abused. Is that what you want?"

“No!” Eddie feels his own eyes prickle with tears. “No, never!” 

“Then why do you hang out around them? Why don’t you have more girl friends?”

“Because I like them! And they like me!”

“Oh, pumpkin, everyone would like you! You don’t have to settle --”

“ _ I’m not settling _ !” He shouts, his fists balling up. The fingers on his injured hand dig into the cast. 

His mom pulls back at the yell, shock warping her feature. Eddie swallows.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not," he continues, his voice much softer now. "I'm not. They're good people, they make me happy. I'm sorry."

There's a heavy pause between them. The clock in the kitchen ticks on, the TV keeps running soaps in the corner of Eddie's vision. But between him and his mom, there's nothing but still, suffocating and stoney silence, and Eddie shrinks in on himself in the midst of it. 

"How did you break your arm, Adelaide?" Her tone is no less soft. In fact, she's so calm and soothing that Eddie feels like he's having a tantrum right about now in comparison. 

Eddie can feel shame and regret heat up his face.

"Mommy…"

"Tell me how you broke your arm."

Sharp, hot tears fill Eddie's eyes.

“I won’t ask again, baby,” she tells him, her voice still sickeningly gentle.

"I fell."

"Where did you fall, Laidey-bug?'

"...In the Neibolt house."

"And who's idea was it to go to a decrepit, rotting, vermin and mold infested house? Was it yours?"

Eddie wants nothing more than to say it  _ was _ his idea, that his friends had nothing to do with it. But his mom already knew what happened, and Eddie already knows how this conversation is going to end. 

"Who's idea was it, Adelaide?"

"Bill." He concedes. "Bill wanted us to go."

His mom tuts softly, pulling him into a hug. "It's terrible what happened to his brother. But that doesn't mean he gets to put you in danger. Especially since…well, you know where  _ Bill _ was when it happened. You're my baby, and I am not going to lose you, too. Do you see why I'm angry at your friends?"

"Yeah," he whispers. 

"Stay with me, here, sweetie," she says, kissing the top of his head. "Summer's almost over, anyway. You'll make better friends in September."

It wasn't even August yet. Eddie nods anyway.

“Good girl,” she says. “Now, come on, my soaps are starting.”

* * *

Over the next week, his mother glues herself to his side so much that Eddie wonders if he’ll ever have a moment alone ever again. She makes an effort to mention how proud she is of her sweet, kind, intelligent  _ daughter _ . How  _ pretty _ Eddie is, how he’ll always be her  _ Laidey-bug _ , how anyone who thinks otherwise is clearly  _ deluded  _ and/or  _ intends to cause you harm _ . It’s a seemingly normal parental promise of affection and support, but it’s handled with a deliberate and horrible hurt. And that’s what hurts more, beyond the words themselves: everything she says could be just an innocuous statement of love, and  _ Eddie _ could be the crazy one. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s just faking all this shit for some reason, or maybe he really is sick, in a way that the pills haven’t caught yet. But then he’ll remember the way his heart soars when his friends use his name, his  _ real _ one, and Eddie feels less like his mom cares and more like she’s scraping away all the bits of him that she doesn't like. 

And if that's the case, Eddie's screwed, because he doubts there's any genuine part of him that she'd like. 

Still, he can’t be mad at her. He must be difficult. Here she is, giving him the name of her own late mother, making sure he knew how loved he was, putting up with all his illnesses, and he still couldn’t find it in him to accept all that. He felt guilty, sometimes. He felt like an imposter in the skin of her daughter, the one that was supposed to arrive but didn't show. 

He does, eventually, defy her and call her out about the gazebos, and then return to the Neibolt house. Once it was over and done with, he makes a beeline to the shower and washes his clothes with himself, to limit the questions she'd have. It takes him a full half hour, and he still doesn't have a good explanation as to where he was, or what possessed him to talk to his mother like that. Or why he decided to come home at all.

Eddie  _ hates _ how he always came home.

Given everything that happened that day, his mother grounds him for the actual rest of the summer. She doesn't always punish him, preferring to defer the blame onto any of his friends, but she's  _ pissed _ now. 

If his mother is working a day shift, he'll sneak out, but he notices how few and far between those have become. To work around that, his friends sneak up to his house to visit him during that time. Richie, especially. He brings comics and stories from the others whenever he climbs up to his window. (Truthfully, Eddie feels warm and mushy in ways that he doesn't feel with the other Losers, and in ways that scare him. There's a delicate balance of logic and feelings when it comes to his gender, a balance his brain could rationalize. Liking Richie, another boy, throws that balance into wack, and what he's left with doesn't make sense, based on what he's heard from the world, his doctors, the few stories that trickle into Derry from out of town.)

More than anything, he brings hushed questions for Eddie. He’ll sit with him on his bed and ask what his mother’s done, what's she's said, if he's  _ okay _ . 

And Eddie doesn't know how to answer them. Particularly not the last one. It’s complicated. It's like a kaleidoscope, with a million distinct facts swirling and blending into each other so he can't get a good grasp on what he's seeing. She's his mother; she just cares about him more than most mothers care about their kids. Fuck, with all the stories he hears from her shifts at the hospital, he's lucky he's not being neglected. But then she's also his jailer; he's seen his bedside lamp more than the August sun. And, as for his gender… 

“She'd be understanding if she got it," Eddie says defensively. He rolls a strand of hair between his fingers. Is he crazy or is it getting longer? (_Probably both, Wheezy_.) Richie goes uncharacteristically quiet, something flashing across his face before it smoothes out.

“Whatever, dude,” he says, rolling his eyes with no real malice. “Hope you enjoy your Norman Bates routine. Do me a favour, though, and don’t invite me to the opening of your motel. I always say that three’s a crowd.”

Eddie throws his crumpled up candy wrapper at Richie’s head, but Richie bats it away with ease and a cackle. 

“Fuck you,” Eddie bites back. 

Richie opens his mouth, but clacks it shut rather than going for the low-hanging mom joke fruit. Fuck, Eddie's face must be screaming, "Not right now, maybe later," because even though Eddie can _hear_ the "I meant you're not invited, I only have eyes for your mom, etc etc" that Richie could've gone for, he just switches the topic. The tension in the air between them hasn’t totally cleared, but Richie talks about the new game at the arcade, and Eddie takes the lead anyway.

But even Eddie, stuck in his room, knows that the game is a month old. And he suspects Richie hasn't stepped a foot across the threshold since then.


	2. I Know Better Than That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years and years and years. He’s lost so much fucking time. But, as his therapist (and isn’t that a joke in and of itself? All those doctors, and never once did Sonia or even Eddie himself allow him to go to a fucking psychologist, for the most ill part about him) so eloquently put it, it’s better to focus on the time he has left. Keep the good shit, throw away the bad, and accept that you deserve to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff!!  
Warning for some very brief mentions of past abuse, but Eddie is one hundred percent in a better space rn

Years later, Eddie rolls over onto his back in bed, blinking out of a weird memory-dream combo. His hands run along the scar on his abdomen through his pyjama shirt, taking a morbid kind of comfort in the itchy, tingly feeling he gets from the motion. It reminds him that he’s alive, and that he’s moved on from so much. 

After that dream…memory…that _ whatever _, he really fucking appreciates the grounding effect it has on him. 

It feels like a pretty petty thing to get hung up on, given all the shit he’s gone through. His mom, alone, has done so much worse to him than just misgendering him. After the placebos, there was a solid six month period where Eddie felt like absolute shit for the first time in years, ever since that mystery fever at age five. He never verbalized it, not even to his therapist, not even to the Losers, but he suspected that she was the cause, in a more direct way than just stress. Then, she took him out of Derry when she found out that he and Richie kissed, moving them to Queens, and because of that Eddie forgot everything. The only thing he had to hold onto was his own name and a vague sense that he lost some incredibly important people, one in particular. 

But still. It hurt him. It ground him down, and it took him years to start to build himself back up again. Years to unlearn a ton of toxic shit he convinced himself was real, about himself and everything. Years to accept that maybe, if it was okay to be trans, it was also okay to be gay. 

Years and years and _ years _. He’s lost so much fucking time. But, as his therapist (and isn’t that a joke in and of itself? All those doctors, and never once did Sonia or even Eddie himself allow him to go to a fucking psychologist, for the actually sick part about him) so eloquently put it, it’s better to focus on the time he has left. Keep the good shit, throw away the bad, and accept that you deserve to be happy. 

And right now, in the dark of night and bringing himself back from all that childhood pain, holding the love of his life sounds pretty good for his happiness.

He back onto his side, intending to pull Richie closer and bury his face into his shoulder, but he’s met with a clear view of the opposite wall. 

He sighs. Bad night for both of them, then.

Padding out of the bedroom, he sees a familiar mop of curly hair peeking out from the back of the couch, a pair of obnoxious, neon-green headphones blaring David Bowie. 

Eddie props himself against the arm of the couch, waving a hand in front of his fiancé’s face -- and _ fuck _ , was it nice to say that. Did he ever get such a soppy thrill from saying “fiancé” with Myra? Has anyone ever felt this way about someone else? It’s cheesy as fuck, but he’s too sleep deprived and domestically blissed-out to really give a shit about his reputation. Who’ll see him, anyway? Richie? The fucker’s already seen him cry five different times and ways at _ Shazam!_, it’s too late to salvage any reputation with him. Not that Eddie would have it any other way.

Richie startles anyway, but then captures his hand and brings it to his lips in a kiss.

“Thanks! Mine now!” he states, a little too loudly given his headphones. He must notice, given that he awkwardly nudges them off with his shoulder. 

“Nice try, fucker, but if the clown can’t have it, neither can you,” Eddie says. He tugs his hand a little just to prove he can. 

“_You _ accepted _ my _ proposal, jackass, what do you _ think _ ‘hand in marriage’ is supposed to mean?” Richie, blessedly, shuts the tab with Spotify so _ Heroes _ stops trying to interrupt their conversation. “It means we share two things: our last names, and our hands. Next time get a prenup.”

“It’s not too late for me to do that, you know.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d kill for my hands, admit it. These hands have touched some very famous celebrities.” He gives him the most shit-eating grin he can manage. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, then adjusts himself so he’s able to see the screen. “I'm sure. What are you working on?”

“Next stand-up. My manager’s been on my case since I fired my writer.”

Eddie hums, leaning as much of himself against Richie as physically possible. His eyes flick across the page, a smile on his lips. “I see the dick jokes have taken a new turn.”

“I’m letting my muse guide me. The people will never tire of hearing of my dick, but introducing some variety with my husband-to-be's assorted ones might be fun.” He cranes his head up, his eyes losing their joking mirth and turning sincere. “If you’re not cool with it, though--”

“‘S fine,” Eddie assures him. “Just don’t bring up the Mr. Limpy fiasco.”

Richie sits upright so quickly he nearly upends Eddie from the arm. He steadies him by shooting an arm out to grab him, helping pull him further onto the couch. The laptop bounces on his lap, and Eddie puts it on the table to spare it from being collateral from Richie’s dramatics. 

“Jesus shit, watch --”

“The _ Mr. Limpy fiasco _ ?” Richie interrupts, eyes sparkling once more with amusement and a grin splitting his face. “Also, I’m really sorry. But the Mr. Limpy _ fiasco?! _ Eddie, baby, love of my life and light in the dark! Apple of my eye! My lobster! I am begging you here, what exactly is the ‘Mr. Limpy fiasco’?”

Eddie groans. “Oh shit, did I really just…not tell you?”

“Nope!” The grin widens impossibly more. 

“Shit, no, yeah, it was Bill.” 

“B-- Wait, T-O! Bill knows about that delightfully named fiasco and I don’t? Me? ME! The love of _ your _ life and light in _ your _ dark, apple in--” 

“I think it came up last time we got together, when we all got drunk?” Eddie recalls the memory from a haze, sees Bill doubled over wheezing in laughter. “Yeah, he started asking me some questions about packers for a character and, shit, I forget exactly _ how _, but it came up.”

“Astounding! My own fiancé shares an intimate and personal story about his dick with our mutual friend and not _ me _! I’m betrayed, Eddie! Knew I should have gotten that prenup!” He dramatically collapses against the arm of the couch, one arm extended far enough to brush his knuckles against the floor, the other covering his eyes. 

“Please, if it was _ intimate _ and _ personal_, I wouldn’t call it a fiasco. And if I wasn't absolutely piss drunk, I wouldn't have told it at all. It was the most dumbass, pathetic moment that I went through in college. Also, ‘fiasco’ is about the least sexy word in the english language.”

“‘Taxes’?” Richie points out.

“Oh, really, how’s about last month?” Eddie counters, watching the corners of Richie’s mouth twitch upward again. 

“A fluke.” He straightens up. “But seriously, I promise, I’ll never tell a soul, but I _ need _ to know that story, Eds. I need it more than air. More than food. More than --”

“Sleep? I’d argue on good authority that you need sleep right now.”

“Swear on my life, I need that story more. Would you deny me so, my dearest Spagheds? Your own fiancé?” 

“Tell you what.” Eddie twists his hand, still in Richie’s grip, to grab his wrist. He stands, and moves around the couch so he’s pulling Richie up with him. “Come to bed, and I’ll tell you.”

“Hm. I accept the conditions,” Richie says, then leans down to peck Eddie on the lips. 

“Good.” Then, the reason they’re both in the living room at, what -- he glances to the clock on the TV box; three am, _ Jesus fuck _ \-- this stupid, ungodly hour wades itself to the forefront of his mind. “Hey, listen -- are you okay? Wanna talk about why you’re up in the first place?”

Richie sighs. He pulls Eddie in for a hug, cradling the back of his head gently. It’s a loving kind of gentle. It’s one that his mother never got right -- her touches, when they were gentle, were also proprietary, smothering. He was there to be protected like a porcelain doll. Myra got it closer, but there was still a patronizing feeling to them, sticking to his skin like oil long after they were gone. Eddie-bear, some_ thing _ to dote on, not some _ one _ who could handle himself. Richie, though -- he’s protective because they’ve both been through the wringer, and Eddie is the same way back. He knows when Eddie can handle himself, and when he can't he stands by him, not keep him locked away. 

Eddie holds him back with the same care, playing with the old novelty shirt Richie is wearing as pyjamas. They’re both here, both safe, both healing. He’ll spend the rest of his life reminding Richie of that, if he has to. 

“Clown bullshit,” Richie eventually sighs into Eddie’s hair, but he already had the feeling that was the case. “I got it out of my system, though, I'm ready to head back to bed. Doesn’t matter.”

“If it’s waking you up, it clearly is. Even if it wasn't and it was just bothering you, it matters. But you’re safe now.” Eddie said, pressing a kiss onto his shoulder, like he intended to right when he woke up. Fucking finally. “We’re good.”

“We’re good.” Richie echoes. Then, he freezes. “Shit, you’re up too, what about you?”

“Mom bullshit,” Eddie answers. “But it’s -- just, long gone by now. She’s gone. I'm ready to head back, too.” He pulls back to face Richie. “It’s just gonna take time to figure that out, I guess.” 

"We've got it," Richie assures him. "Time. All of it. Time's ours for the taking, just for you and me."

"You're rambling, you fucking sap," Eddie says, fond as all get out. 

"And you're marrying me! I guess you're sap-iosexual."

"Oh my god, you've been on Twitter for the past three hours."

"Clearly not. You've seen my dick jokes, those are choice! You can't just wing those!"

"Jury's out, Tozier. Exhibit A is the 'details' thingy on Google Docs."

"Hey, hey, didn't you have a Mr. Lumpy Fiasco that you were telling me about?"

"I don't see us in bed yet, do you?"

"Ooh, Mr. Kaspbrak, are you propositioning me?"

"Right now? Not really. Ask me again in the morning."

Richie waggles his eyebrows, and Eddie groans.

"C'mon, Trashmouth, bedtime." He tugs him towards the bedroom.

"Hey," Richie says when they collapse into bed. "Love you."

"Love you too." Eddie says. But Richie's already out as soon as his head hits the pillow, so he doesn't get to impart the fiasco that night. As Eddie's own eyes are closing, he realizes that he doesn't have to, right now. They have time, after all. 

And spooning Richie, in the dark safety of their LA apartment, that's more than enough for Eddie. 


End file.
